


Red Hands

by toraguru



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Community: hobbit_kink, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unconscious Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3262010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toraguru/pseuds/toraguru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Hobbit Kink Meme! Here's the prompt: </p><p>While the company is walking across Mirkwood, Biblo falls down a slope and straight into a sex pollen field. He comes out a bit bruised and feels a bit itchy, but nothing worth to worry about.<br/>When the night comes, the dwarves wake up to the hobbit's screams.</p><p>Oin recognises the symptoms and he confirms that yes, Bilbo is infected with a rare pollen that will cause him atrocious pain and ultimate kills him if he doesn't get fucked. So all the have to do is give their hobbit a nice tumble and everything will be fine, right? No.</p><p>The dwarves are horrified with the idea of sleeping with Bilbo if he cannot consent. They end up doing it, because the hobbit will die if they don't, but feel like they are basically abusing him. And even after the first one finished the pollen still affects Bilbo, so more of them need to join.</p><p>Just want the usual sex-pollen fic more focused on the mental stress the situation produces than the porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Hands

With all of the complaining their hobbit burglar did, the dwarves of Thorin’s company were inclined to believe him when he insisted that he was alright. If something was indeed wrong, by Bilbo’s delicate standards, certainly they would not have heard the end of it. “A tad scratchy, is all,” Bilbo had assured them. “Nothing a proper bath won’t solve.”

To call a dip in the river a “proper” bath was being generous, but effective enough to wash the remains of pale yellow pollen away with the current. How like hobbits, the dwarves agreed, to take a tumble in a field of flowers. No respectable Dwarrow was ever involved in such things. 

“You lot are not as respectable as you think!” Bilbo called out across the water. His skin was rosy where his fingers scrubbed the pollen from its surface. “For a race so concerned about their hairstyles, you are remarkably quick to lay judgement on us little folk!”

“They’re yanking your beard, lad,” Bofur hollered. “This company is well aware of how dignified you are!” 

Throaty chuckles erupted from the bank of the river. Even Thorin cracked an affectionate smile. The dwarves may have shared a laugh at Bilbo’s expense, but when the burglar emerged shivering from the water, short arms were there with warm linens to dry him off. Bilbo’s bright eyes were knowing when they met Thorin’s, who felt his ears grow hot and chest grow tight as the hobbit accepted the towels. 

The night crept on at a steady pace. White as the Pale Orc himself, the full moon hung heavy in the inky expanse above. Its glow cast shadows on the dark places of the sleeping camp, the fire having long since been extinguished. Soft snores and fleeting mutterings floated from slumbering mouths. The comforting sound lay over the camp like a thick blanket.

A shriek sliced through it like a clap of thunder.

Thorin’s heart jolted in his chest, eyes flying open. His fingers gripped the handle of his sword as he shot out of his bedroll. “Orcs?!” he shouted, half as a question, half as a rousing call to arms.

Fili and Kili were up not half a second after their uncle. The full moon illuminated their tensed forms, pressed back to back, white knuckles clutching their weapons. Kili’s jaw was set hard in feigned courage. Fili’s eyes were wild with fear. An orc raid, in the darkness of night, was the stuff of the dwarflings’ nightmares. “What’s happening, Uncle?” Kili growled, voice rattling in his throat.

Another scream echoed through the trees, startling a family of thrushes from the nearby bushes. The tiny birds fluttered up towards the clouds, screeching their terror, until they became only specks to the eye. A third wretched scream chased their retreating forms.

Holding his sword high, prepared to cleave off the first unsightly head to emerge through the trees, Thorin’s gaze searched the darkness for movement. Orcs were not usually so tactful in remaining undetected.

“Thorin!” Balin’s voice called to him from across the camp. Another scream punctuated it.

Thorin’s head snapped around to search for Balin in the darkness. He spotted the white-haired dwarf crouched by a bedroll near the edge of the clearing, hovering over a supine form. His stomach knotted in terror. By Mahal, if someone in the company had been injured while the King Under the Mountain lay napping…

“Uncle!” Fili cried. “It’s Bilbo!”

The knot in his stomach gave a sickening twist. Thorin sprinted to where the company was gathering, shoving through the circle to get to Balin and Bilbo. As he took in the sight of his most trusted watchman struggling to calm the writhing form of his burglar, Thorin felt his knees grow weak.

“What has happened?” he demanded. 

Bilbo shrieked, clawing at his own skin, each cry like a dagger twisted in Thorin’s gut.

“I have seen this before,” said Óin. All turned to heed the words of the company’s experienced healer, and one by one take in the grave look in his eyes. “His ailment is caused by the pollen Bilbo came into contact with earlier. This is a rare, but dangerous reaction.”

At those words, Dori made a choked sound. He stood from his kneeling position, clenching and unclenching his fists, before retreating to sit on a log near the glowing embers of the firepit. Thorin watched him leave, face pinched, and tried to swallow the feeling that was worming its way up his throat.

“Well, what salve do you need?” Bofur asked, also rising to his feet. “I’ll fetch it for you. Just say which one.”

Óin shook his head. “No salve. There is not one. This ailment has one cure, only. I–” His voice broke unexpectedly, and he looked at a loss for words. The healer placed a tentative hand on Thorin’s shoulder. His face was unnaturally pained. “Forgive me, Thorin Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, King under the Mountain.” Then he stopped.

Thorin was unnerved by the sudden use of his full title. His brow furrowed in unspoken confusion as he searched Óin’s eyes, but found nothing that he could make sense of.

Óin stared back into Thorin’s gaze as if willing him to understand. “I would ask that we discuss this in private, but there is not time,” he said. “Bilbo will die before dawn if the cure is not…applied.”

A flash of fire streaked across Thorin’s vision. “Then tell me of this cure, by Mahal!” he shouted, and kicked at a nearby flask left strewn beside the bedroll. The container rolled to the edge of the camp and struck a rock, laying undignified and upside-down.

The company’s healer was unfazed, used to the heat of his king’s intensity. “In some folk, the pollen works the victim’s body into a fevered overdrive. Unless an outlet is offered – a release, if you will – the body will quite literally burn itself up,” Óin explained. “To save the Hobbit, he must be laid with and penetrated to completion. Repeatedly, it sometimes seems, until the pollen’s reaction has run its course.”

The group remained still for several moments. Ori was eventually the one to break the silence, uttering one quiet, “Oh, dear,” before the company erupted into an indistinguishable, arguing mass.

Fili and Kili shoved each other by the shoulders, shouting into each other’s faces and grasping at each other’s collars. “You will not!” cried Fili, and Kili yelled something indecipherable back at his brother. Fili pushed him hard, and Kili collided with a scuffling Bofur, Gloin, and Bifur. 

Dwalin was trying to remove Balin from his place beside the screaming hobbit, and the old dwarf was hurling curses at his brother in response. “Dirty old man!” Dwalin spat, giving Balin a harsh shove. 

“I am no such thing, you gutter-minded pup!” yelled Balin. The siblings landed in a tangled, wrestling heap in the dust. Bombur, who had received an unanticipated clout from Bofur, fell into the throng and began throwing fists at the fighting brothers.

“Stop it at once!” Óin hollered. “Need I remind you that every second you daft lot waste, our burglar is in immeasurable pain?”

The company was still once again, save for the sound of heavy breathing. The light of the full moon shone on the pile of dwarves, revealing not twisted expressions of malice, but the terrified faces of folk unable to cope with the situation at hand. Ori, in particular, appeared to be close to tears.

“Now, lads,” Óin continued, “We have a decision to make. Bilbo’s fever grows hotter, and we must choose who will do this duty. Who will save him?”

“We can’t!” choked Fili. “Just look at him!” The dwarfling prince pointed to Bilbo’s thrashing, barely-conscious form. “We can’t force ourselves on him. He’ll never forgive us!”

“He’s going to die if we don’t, Fili!” hissed Kili.

“Could you bring yourself to do it, then, lad?” Dwalin pressed, grabbing the back of Kili’s neck and forcing his head to look at Bilbo. “Could you force yourself on him, knowing full well he didn’t want it? Could you violate and defile our burglar?”

Kili’s eyes filled with tears. He let out a wretched sob.

“We cannot do this to Bilbo,” said Nori, who shook his head hard. “It’s sick. We are not Men; we are dwarves. This isn’t our way.”

“What choice do we have?” countered Bofur. “Would you have Bilbo die? Burn up, as if by the flames of Smaug himself, even though we had the power to stop it?”

The company murmured hesitantly at that.

“I will do it.”

All looked to see Thorin approach Bilbo’s bedroll and kneel. His face was as impassive as stone, eyes flat and dull. “As your King, this is my burden to bear alone,” he said, in a voice intentionally harnessed. “I will not have any of my company carry the weight of this act on their shoulders. It is my duty to protect all that accompany on this quest. Bilbo is my burglar. I will do it.”

Thorin’s body was solid and unwavering in that moment, but shook at the core when Balin placed a hand on his shoulder. “Laddie,” Balin began. “Thorin. We know that Bilbo is your One. We would not ask this of you. It would taint your love when it has only barely begun.”

Face contorted, Thorin forced himself to look up at Balin. “But I would not ask it of you, either,” Thorin rasped. But he knew Balin’s words to be true. He could not hurt Bilbo. Not in this way. Never in this way.

The hobbit released an especially bloodcurdling shriek.

Thorin leaped to his feet, gasping for breath, chest tight at the realization that there was no way out of this. He looked up, watching the sky bleed purple with the impending rise of the sun. Time was growing short. He took in Bilbo’s twisted features, his sweaty brow, his sickly paleness, and silently prayed to Mahal that he would open his eyes.

“It will be…gentle, Thorin,” was all of the comfort Óin could seem to give him.

Dori lit a fire from where he sat, watching from a distance, recalling that dragonflame fever that had boiled his veins. It was a pain no creature should know. It was a pain only remedied by a different pain, one that was much more insidious. 

Across from him, the King under the Mountain took a seat on the log. Thorin’s face appeared to be as pale as Bilbo’s as he stared into the depths of the fire. Dori drew in a shaky breath. “He will only remember parts of it,” he said, seemingly to himself, but loud enough for Thorin to overhear. “His gratitude for his life will eventually overcome what he does remember.”

The King said nothing. He simply watched the flames lick at the air.

“It is only done to save him.”

Peering over the flames at the dwarves gathered around Bilbo, and at Thorin’s aching expression, Dori felt his gut twist. If only he could feel the truth in his own words.

Every rustle. Every scratch of linen against skin. Every sound of a boot in the dust. All of it made Thorin’s skin crawl. He was hyperaware of the sounds coming from behind him; Bilbo’s pained screams he found by far the least disturbing, and he hated himself for it. He wanted to crawl inside the fire in front of him and burn for what he has allowed to occur. 

Then: not a scream. A soft, hobbit-sounding groan of confused fear that ripped through to Thorin’s very soul. 

He was on his feet in an instant.

“Th-thorin?” Bofur asked, as Thorin took a seat on the ground by Bilbo’s head. 

He pulled the small body up until those bronze curls were cradled safe in his lap. His broad, calloused fingers wiped sweat from Bilbo’s brow and traced circles on his temple. Thorin grit his teeth, occupied himself with his hobbit’s hair, and said nothing.

Balin cast a wary look at the eastern sky. “Keep going, laddie. We haven’t much time.”

There was a quiet, wet sound as Bofur’s lips descended once more upon Bilbo’s drooling cock. The flesh was as stiff as iron, smelted in the heat of the pollen’s fever. The slick noises were too loud, too telling, and Thorin tried his damnedest to keep his eyes on Bilbo’s face.

But Thorin Oakenshield was weak. Weak, when he needed to be strong the most. When his gaze crept up the flushed, naked expanse of Bilbo’s body and saw Bofur, lips sealed at the base of Bilbo’s erection, the head of his dick no doubt buried deep in the dwarf’s throat, Thorin could not hold back a gasp. 

Bofur looked up, meeting Thorin’s eyes.

He could have roared with anguish at the image reflected within them. Thorin could see himself, nostrils flared, lips parted, clearly aroused by the defilement of his One. He wrenched his eyes back to Bilbo. The roof of his mouth ached against the flow of hot tears threatening to overflow. His fingers threaded tight into Bilbo’s hair, as if without the anchor Thorin might slip down into hell. 

Those obscene suckling noises grazed down his spine like icy fingers. Thorin’s jaw worked, trying to find his words. “Why,” he tried, and found his mouth suddenly full of saliva. He swallowed thickly. “Why is this part necessary? Óin said penetration was the cure.”

A loud pop made him flinch as Bofur pulled off of Bilbo’s cock. The hobbit on Thorin’s lap squirmed. “He said ‘penetration to completion’,” said Bofur. “The more of this we do, the less actual…penetration has to occur before Bilbo spills.”

At “spills”, Thorin felt bile rise in his throat. This enchanting creature Bilbo, always so round and rosy, should never be spoken of in such a vile way. “Carry on, then,” he snarled, refusing to look anywhere but at Bilbo’s long eyelashes. 

Bofur returned to his ministrations, swirling his tongue around the tip of Bilbo’s cock and pressing his knuckle hard into the spot below the hobbit’s balls. Bilbo began making scared, bewildered noises, and tossing his head back and forth on Thorin’s lap.

“I don’t imagine he knows much of what’s going on, laddie,” assured Balin, at Thorin’s stricken expression.

On Thorin’s ankle, the hem of his trousers had ridden up to mid-calf. A terrible, sickly heat blazed there where Bilbo’s skin met his. He stroked his fingers over Bilbo’s cheekbones, tracing the bone structure, running from his sweaty brow down to his plump lips. His fingertips skimmed over his burglar’s velvety eyelids, willing them to open, praying for the opportunity to tell Bilbo what was going on. To show that they were only healing him. To help him not be afraid.

“Lads,” Balin said, nodding to Fili and Kili. The young brothers sat up against a nearby rock, Kili with his back to Fili’s chest, nestled between his legs. At the address, Fili’s arms tightened around his sniffling brother. “Dori needs some kindling for the fire. Take Ori with you, fetch a few more sticks, hm?” said Balin.

Fili whispered a faint, “Come on,” into Kili’s ear, and the two of them rose to their feet. Fili motioned for Ori to follow, and the other young dwarf rose as well. They disappeared through the trees, both Ori and Kili looking over their shoulders at the scene as they went. 

Bofur allowed Bilbo’s cock to slip from his mouth and smack against the hobbit’s abdomen, the rock-hard flesh slapping hard against the endearing softness of his stomach. It began leaking fluid onto the pale skin where it rested. “I think it’s time, now,” Bofur muttered, groaning as he stood.

Balin’s lower lip trembled, causing his hefty white beard to shake, and he took a small step forward. When his eyes came to rest on Bilbo’s writhing, sweaty body, however, he stopped. Thorin watched in horror as Balin’s kind face crumpled.

A broad, strong hand turned the old dwarf away and squeezed his shoulder in comfort. “I will do it in your stead, brother,” murmured Dwalin. “Aye?”

Balin nodded furiously, but Thorin could not see his face. “Aye,” he agreed. 

The bald dwarf moved to take Bofur’s place between Bilbo’s splayed legs. Bofur wiped his mouth, and stepped around the bedroll and withdrew to beyond the camp, hidden away in the darkness. Thorin tried to block out the sound of Bofur’s violent retching and heaving coming from between the trees. The noise seemed to echo, coming from all directions, smothering him, until the sound of Bilbo’s keening blocked out all else.

Thorin’s head whipped back from where he was searching the trees, watching with dismay as Dwalin’s blunt finger breached the tightness of Bilbo’s entrance. The finger entered easily, slick with the oil that Óin had provided. Dwalin’s powerful muscles rippled down his arm as he pumped that finger in and out.

Bilbo pressed his head back into Thorin’s lap, leaning away from the probing intrusion. Thorin’s breath came hard and fast as he held the hobbit in place, bringing his own fist up to his mouth to sink his teeth into. It was a struggle to keep his composure, caught between a moan and a sob, the sick feeling in his stomach growing with every second that passed. 

As soon as the hobbit’s body could take it, Dwalin inserted a second finger and began thoroughly stretching Bilbo’s hole. The war between a loving touch and a clinical one was as real as the battle of Azanulbizar itself; he knew not of how much the hobbit was aware, and was unsure if the experience should be cold and fast or pleasurable and kind.

When at last Bilbo’s muscles became pliant, too warm and worked to fight back, Dwalin began oiling his own dwarfhood liberally. His grip was tight, strokes intentionally teasing, as the sickening nature of this activity was keeping him soft. He worked his cock into an acceptable hardness and positioned himself at Bilbo’s entrance.

Dwalin met Thorin’s eyes as he hooked one of Bilbo’s fleshy legs over his shoulder. The other he spread out to the side, bracing himself under the knee with an iron grasp. He impaled their burglar in a smooth, unceremonious motion. 

Thorin tried to ignore the rhythmic rocking of Bilbo’s body against him. He would not cry; Kings did not cry in front of their subjects, and neither would Thorin Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror. But the hot needles of tears still pricked behind his eyes. They did not know of his heritage. Tears did not discriminate.

A choked grunt reached his ears, one of the few that Dwalin could not manage to restrain. When Thorin looked up Dwalin appeared visibly ill, his face tinged a sickly green. He turned away from Thorin to stare at the ground. His hips did not waver in their passionless thrusting.

Bilbo’s lower abdomen twitched, cock purple and throbbing against his belly. He was close, Thorin could tell. This nightmare was nearly over.

Dwalin gripped Bilbo by the hips and shifted their positions. He raised the hobbit’s legs up higher, angled his torso lower, trying to hit a particular spot inside him. Bilbo’s head slid down from Thorin’s lap during the adjustment; Thorin snarled at Dwalin, pulling his burglar back to him.

“He needs the angle,” Dwalin growled. “It’ll be over much quicker this way.”

After a moment, Thorin complied. He moved closer to Dwalin so that the hobbit’s head would still be cushioned on his lap, and the other dwarf resumed his position shift. Each thrust that followed had the head of Dwalin’s cock strike the hobbit’s sweet spot, relentlessly hammering the sensitive point.

Like Dwalin had promised, it was only moments later that Bilbo fell over the edge. With a pained cry Bilbo shot pearly seed onto his own torso. Thorin watched it slide down the decline of his chest, pooling in the hollow of his throat and nearly sobbed. The beautiful purity that was Bilbo; how could it possibly survive this night? How could it survive the image of the hobbit’s own seed dripping down his chest?

But Bilbo’s skin remained as hot as dragon fire to the touch, even minutes after his orgasm had faded. His flushed cock still stood up, hard, curving up from his groin in a graceful arc. “The fever is not breaking,” said Thorin, testing Bilbo’s burning skin.

“I feared that this would occur,” said Óin. “For some, one round of release is not enough to stop the reaction to the pollen. I wouldn’t doubt that it has much to do with his small stature, and the amount of pollen he was exposed to.”

A rush of blood pounded through Thorin’s skull, sending him off on a bout of dizzying nausea. More. There was more to be endured. “Mahal, give us strength,” he whispered to the purple sky, which was growing brighter by the minute.

Dwalin withdrew from Bilbo’s blistering heat, finding the willpower somewhere not to spill inside their burglar. He slunk off to his bedroll and turned his back to the group, no doubt planning on finishing himself off alone. Or perhaps not at all. 

Dawn was upon them by the time the pollen fever was finally quelled, and four other dwarves had brought Bilbo to completion. Nori, Gloin, Bifur, and Bombur; all had penetrated the hobbit and given him orgasm after shuddering orgasm, although none had finished themselves. Thorin grew weary of the constant undulation, the repulsive wet sounds, the way Bilbo gasped and cried out without knowing what was even happening to him.

When a startling coolness had finally fallen upon the hobbit’s sweat-slick skin, after Bombur had withdrawn, Thorin allowed a broken sigh to escape his lips. He smoothed his hands over Bilbo’s face, over his lips and his eyelids, over the upturn of his nose. “It is over, Bilbo,” he whispered. _“Achrâchi gabilul.”_

“You have nothing to be sorry about, King under the Mountain,” said Óin, who handed him a jar of herbs. “This was no fault of yours.”

“I allowed half the company to sheath themselves in my One!” he growled at the healer. “He was violated on my order. Defiled, on my command. I am filth.”

“He is alive because of you, Thorin,” Óin retorted. “Would you rather your One be dead?”

Thorin said nothing. He began wiping Bilbo down with a linen sheet and redressing him. It felt wrong putting him back into his splendid hobbit clothes, to button his fancy jacket as if none of this had happened. But Thorin’s clumsy fingers buttoned them anyway. He placed his back against a nearby rock and nestled Bilbo’s head in his lap once again. The hobbit was silent for the first time since night fell, save for the occasional soft snore. He wove comforting fingers through those curly locks.

Thorin Oakenshield did not sleep. He sat watching the sun rise through the trees, and saw it chase the night into the west. The rest of the camp began moving about as usual. Gloin and Bofur were preparing breakfast, employing Fili and Kili to build up the fire once more. Dwalin still lay in his bedroll, his back to the camp. 

“The burglar still sleeps?”

Startled, Thorin looked up to see Dori. “I had not heard you approach,” he admitted. He looked down at Bilbo’s sleeping form. “I hope he does not wake for a few more hours yet. He needs rest.”

Dori nodded, sitting down beside Thorin and stretching his legs out. The dwarf crossed his thick arms and began lighting his pipe. He took a few puffs, and sent a sidelong glance in Thorin’s direction.

The King’s brows furrowed in confusion. Usually Dori was one of the first awake to pack up the camp, assisting the other dwarves with the morning chores. Why was he choosing to sit with Bilbo and himself?

Dori’s lips stretched into a poignant smile around his pipe. He took a puff, and softly stroked a hand through Bilbo’s hair, but only once. The hand then returned to his pipe. “I’ll be here when he wakes up,” Dori said, nodding to Thorin pointedly.

Thrain, Son of Thror, had once said that you are only as good of a dwarf as the ones you surround yourself with. As his eyes grew heavy and slid shut, and the King under the Mountain finally succumbed to sleep with his One in his lap and Dori at his side, he knew that he could safely say that his father was correct.

**Author's Note:**

> Achrâchi gabilul - a quick Google search told me meant "I'm sorry" in Khuzdul. If I'm wrong, please correct me!


End file.
